A Frequent Flyer

What writing lessons did you have to keep learning over and over?

By Dietrich

I’ve bumped into a few truths that didn’t stick the first time—or even the second. Some were as elusive as that one sock that always disappears in the dryer. But after enough laps around the track, a handful of lessons have sunk in.

Just start. I’ve learned not to wait for the perfect moment. Diving in beats staring at a blank page every time.

There’s no point fretting over deleted scenes or chapters that refuse to work. And whining about it won’t help.

When a sentence of “literary genius” starts holding an entire chapter hostage, it’s time to cut it. Sometimes I just have to kill that darling and bury it in the backyard next to the thesaurus and the adverb jar.

Recognize when something isn’t working. This is vital. Some days I’ll spend an hour perfecting a single scene. Other mornings, yesterday’s “brilliant” page looks like hot garbage. Effort doesn’t always equal progress, and I’ve learned to be okay with that.

“This time it’ll come out perfect on the first try” is a lie I’ve stopped telling myself. Expecting a flawless first draft is like hoping that first pancake will look like the ones pictured in the cookbook. I’ve learned to accept the tragic, lumpy mess for what it is, so I can enjoy sculpting it into something worth reading.

Momentum beats perfection. Every. Single. Time.

There is no magic formula. Creative writing isn’t paint-by-numbers. No one-size-fits-all system can reliably produce a masterpiece. Trust the process, not a checklist.

Mind the gap between my head and the page. Just because a scene is crystal clear in my mind doesn’t mean it will land that way for the reader. If the text needs an explanation in the margins, it just isn’t working yet.

“Show, don’t tell” is a great rule—until it isn’t. Following this advice too rigidly means my novel might turn into a 500-page travelogue where every leaf rustles with deep, heavy meaning. Swinging too far toward telling, I start sounding like I’m bored and reciting the phone book. I’ve realized the magic lives in that sweet spot in between. So, I show for impact and save the sensory details for the moments that actually matter to the heart of the story. And I tell for speed, using it as a shortcut to move through transitions and details that don't need a spotlight. There's no need to describe every shadow. I just need to give the reader enough of the right details to let their own imagination fill in the gaps.

Back at the start, I tried to sound literary, which made the prose read like the thesaurus had a stroke. Since then, I’ve learned raw is good, and voice isn’t something that I can invent through effort. It’s what was left over after I stopped trying too hard. When I finally got it right, I could read my pages aloud, feel the rhythm and clarity, without wanting to set the manuscript on fire.

Date the routine. Don’t marry it. I love writing at the same time each day, in the same place, with the same coffee mug. But life intervenes. Routines evaporate. Flexibility keeps the words flowing when the perfect conditions disappear.

Comparing my work to others is a total trap. Wondering why someone else’s story sparkles while mine reads like it was edited by raccoons is a losing game. 

Surrounding myself with like-minded people who support and inspire me makes the whole trip worthwhile.

Above all, the most important lesson I’ve learned is to just show up. Every morning. Consistently. And the rest will follow.